


In a Place That Don't Know My Name

by runsinthefamily



Series: Lonely Souls [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hustling, M/M, Young Dean, closeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:55:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is sixteen the first time he kisses a dude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Place That Don't Know My Name

The best part about hunting with Bobby was the booze-up he always had afterward. Ten hunters sitting around the kitchen and dining room, trading bullshit stories back and forth, sharing knowledge, cleaning guns. It didn't happen very often - the last time had been when Dean was twelve and Bobby had called John in on a nest of vampires big enough to warrant a team. He'd stayed behind with Sam, had made pots of coffee and watched the driveway and when everyone had come back had fallen asleep under the table, listening to the hunters talk. 

This time he'd been out there with them. A civil war battlefield disturbed by witches, three hundred year old ghosts with bayonets and battle formation. The ten of them had barely been enough.

Rufus was laying on the couch, complaining about the hole in his leg, Bobby was nursing a concussion, and everyone had some degree of bruising, cuts, and general having-been-beat-on-itis, but the whiskey was making the aches less achy, and everyone was alive and more or less in one piece. 

"Your kid, John," said Will Trenton, a lanky, greying man, "is a hell of a hunter."

"Told you," said Bobby, shifting the ice on his head.

"Nice job," said Annie, raising her glass in Dean's direction. There was a murmur of agreement.

"Yeah," said John slowly. He looked at Dean, the barest of smiles tugging at his mouth. "He did alright."

Dean ducked his head, chewing his lip to keep a smile down. From John Winchester, that was as good as a parade.

"'Alright?'" Will's partner, Fritz, leaned across the table and topped up Dean's glass. "I'd be dead now, weren't for you," he said. "You got moves." He smiled, and his blue eyes warmed and crinkled at the corners. "Plus, it's nice not to be the youngest guy in the room now and then."

"Quit your bitching," said Will.

"Can't catch a break with this guy," said Fritz, still smiling at Dean. His dark hair was long and shaggy, his face narrow and clever. 

"How old are you?" Dean asked and immediately felt embarrassed about it, felt John's disapproving gaze. You didn't ask hunters personal questions. 

Fritz didn't seem to mind. "Twenty-five." 

"Still in diapers," said Bobby.

"So what does that make me?" Dean asked.

"Still in utero," said Annie, sparking a gale of laughter. She punched him on the arm and he grinned.

Later there was poker, and Bobby and John arguing drunkenly about wendigos, and Rufus snoring raucously on the couch. Dean played poker and lost and didn't care, as drunk on the acceptance and camaraderie as he was on the booze. Well, maybe the booze was in the lead, he decided, when he got up to piss and had to hang onto the back of his chair.

"Gonna get some air," he said.

Annie thumped him on the back. "Good on you," she said, blearily enthusiastic. "Air! Good."

He wandered out the back door and into the junkyard, watered the straggling weeds next to Bobby's shed and then sat down on the hood of a doorless Corolla and tilted his head back. Bobby had the lights off out here, and the stars were achingly bright. There was a chill to the air that felt good after the hot, hunter-sweaty atmosphere inside. His back ached, and he had a burn on his hand from where he'd snatched up the lighter to toss it into the pile of bones, but he felt amazingly good in a way that he couldn't quite quantify. 

"Hell of a night."

Dean was drunk, but he was also John Winchester's son. He had his gun out as he completed his roll off the car, his feet planted firmly and the car between him and ...

Fritz, arms spread, whiskey bottle clasped loosely in one hand.

"Shit," said Dean, his heart still galloping.

"Moves," said Fritz, grinning.

"Good way to get shot," said Dean and put his gun away.

"Eh," said Fritz. "Wouldn't be the first time. Drink?"

"Yeah," said Dean. Adrenaline had chased away a good portion of his buzz. He took the bottle, Fritz's calloused, warm fingers shifting under his. Something shifted in his stomach as well, low and hot. He took a swig, rested his hip against the car again.

Fritz leaned next to him. "Nothing like post-hunt parties," said Fritz. "Usually it's just some bar, me and Will chasing tail. This is nice."

"Yeah," said Dean. "It's me and my dad, most of the time. My brother, too, but he's younger. Doesn't come out with us."

"Sam, right? How old's he now?"

"Twelve," said Dean, smiling down at the bottle. "We left him with Pastor Jim this time round. He wanted to come, man. Skinny little fucker. He's good, though. I'm better with a gun but he's a wiz with a knife."

"Twelve," said Fritz. "That makes you, what, sixteen? Jesus. I was eighteen, my first hunt."

"I can handle it," said Dean, closing up a little. "I've been watching my dad's back for three years now."

"I get it," said Fritz. "It's cool. Like I said before, you got the moves." His teeth flashed white in the semi-darkness and then he was pushing away from the car, swinging his arms, craning his neck. 

"Still juiced?" Dean asked.

"You know it." Fritz bounced away on the balls of his feet, brought his fists up, mock punched at Dean.

Dean knocked his hand away, laughing a little. "Five rounds with the Yanks and Rebs not enough for you?"

"Never enough," said Fritz. He feinted, bobbed, caught Dean's shoulder with a little open-handed slap. "C'mon, Winchester."

That sparked another little dip and sway in Dean's gut. 

"Really?" he asked, putting the bottle down on the Corolla's hood.

"Yeah," said Fritz. "Show me what you got."

Dean knew he was grinning again, couldn't seem to stop. "What if I don't wanna fight?"

"Who's fighting?" asked Fritz, dropping his fists, spreading his arms. "Maybe I wanna dance."

Dean laughed out loud, tipping his head back. When he rolled it down he found Fritz suddenly right there in front of him, whiskey and smoke riding his breath. Dean could feel the heat of his body and, perversely, shivered. "Hey," he said, inadequately. "What's ..."

"Don't wanna fight, hey?" asked Fritz and then he was leaning in, and Dean had a moment to think _oh_ before Fritz kissed him.

It was hot and weird, what with the stubble, but hot, and Fritz wasn't pushing hard, just kind of leaning in, only their lips touching, only a faint rim of starlight etching the curve of his sharp cheekbone. When he pulled away, Dean went on staring at him, trying to process, trying to assess what was going on.

"How ..." he started, and then swallowed. "How did you - does it show?" He felt a sudden, faint terror, imagining his father seeing this, noticing every time his eyes dropped to a dude's ass or shoulders or lips.

Fritz put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he said, his face suddenly serious, intent. "Hey, it's okay."

Dean shook his head. 

"It's just us here," said Fritz, low, persuasive, and he leaned in again, the hand on Dean's shoulder sliding up to cup the side of his neck, thumb rubbing the edge of his jaw and _god_ it felt good. Dean closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

Fuck. Tongue. Fritz's other hand closing on his hip, moving to the small of his back. The smooth, worn cotton of his tee under Dean's hands. The press of his body against Dean's, pushing him back against the car, a knee slipping between his thighs. Dean was hard, embarrassingly so, struggling for control, struggling not to make noises, not to hump forward, not to make a complete ass of himself. Girls, he knew where he was with girls, but this was a man, and fuck, if Fritz didn't stop _pushing_ like that, Dean was going to come right in his pants.

"Dean." John sounded drunk, and slightly angry, and worried. "Dean?"

"Fuck!" Dean shoved away from Fritz, wiped his mouth. Fritz let him go. He raked his hands through his hair, stared at Fritz. 

"Dean?" Coming closer.

Fritz leaned in, pressed his lips to Dean's earlobe, and whispered, "Some other time, Winchester." He scooped the whiskey off the car and slipped away behind a minivan, just as John rounded the edge of the shed and spotted Dean.

"Jesus, Dean, you aren't this stupid," said John. "Outside, alone, at night? Drunk? What the fuck have I been teaching you all this time?" He cuffed Dean on the back of the head, not hard. 

"Sorry, Dad," said Dean. He was still trembling, still hard, still dizzy with realization and fear and a strange, floating happiness. All of which was hidden in the dark, thank god.

"Get back in the house," said John. "Christ."

Dean went.


End file.
